


Reflection and Refraction

by Chimie_Chat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Break Up, Slow Burn, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13107825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimie_Chat/pseuds/Chimie_Chat
Summary: At twenty-two years old, Yuri Plisetsky finds himself in heartbreak. With no motivation, no one to turn to, and no idea what to do next, he ends up in Almaty to stay with an old friend. But this brings out a whole different set of emotions. The attempt to clear his head in close quarters to Otabek only makes him remember simpler times, an old summer romance, and everything that he keeps doing wrong. Sometimes it's hard to accept how much things have changed.





	1. The End

**Yuri - Age 22**

The post was short and straight to the point. A picture of a couple empty bottles, lined up across what was clearly a bar counter, with the caption “fuck”. No hashtags. This prompted many comments from fans, and personal messages from people who actually knew him, but Yuri Plisetsky had let his phone battery drain that night. He woke up the next morning with the hangover from hell. Here he was, with slightly more than two decades under his belt, waking up on the floor of his childhood bedroom, at one in the afternoon, in the same clothes from yesterday.

The twenty-two year old pushed himself off the carpet with a grunt. He fished through his jeans pockets for his phone, and jammed the end of the cable from his bedside table into the charging port. After making sure he was stable enough on his feet, Yuri trenched down the hall and over to the bathroom. He was careful not to make too much noise. His reflection was horrible, so he didn’t stare at it long. Pain killers for the headache and anti-nausea medication for the way the floor was still spinning were kept in the medicine cabinet. With the help of drugs, and one long, steamy shower, the figure skater was finally starting to feel human again.

He didn’t bother getting fully dressed, only yanking on clean underwear, before tearing through every drawer to find at least one article of clothing that didn’t bring back memories of him. Yuri ended up finding an old “I <3 NY” tshirt he had gotten when he competed in Skate America a few years back. Once partially clothed, he threw himself into his bed, burying himself in blankets, before grabbing his phone. Now that it had some charge in it once more, Yuri was bamboozled with text messages and missed calls from various people trying to contact him. He went through, sending a quick reply to those who were legitimately concerned, but for the most part, he didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Right before he locked his phone again, right after closing out of all open apps, Yuri caught a glimpse of his home screen background, and suddenly was overcome with tears. It was a picture of him and that guy. That stupid, stupid, stupid guy. Words played through the blond’s memories like a broken record as he sobbed into the pillows.

_It’s not you, it’s me._

The fuck was that supposed to mean? Three years. Yuri had been with that damned french boy for three years. Three years, after meeting him in an art gallery that his grandfather dragged him to in Moscow. Three years, after countless stupid dates and ‘I love you’s, and taking him to competitions. One year after they had decided to take the leap, and Yuri had moved in with him. After so long, this boy had the nerve to not only stomp all over his heart, but also kicked his ass to the curb before the figure skater had even had a chance to speak. So Yuri had nowhere to go but back to his grandfather’s house, and yes, he had gotten “a little” drunk last night. But he figured he down-right deserved to drown his sorrows at least a little bit.

He honestly didn’t even know what went wrong, and that was the worst part. Yes, he had to travel a lot for skating competitions, so he was pretty MIA for four months out the year. But he would come too. All the time actually. The guy was a photographer for fucks sake. He got to go travel the goddamned world with Yuri, and he got to do it for free half the time too. How was that so bad?

Sure, Yuri would be the first to admit that he had a temper issue. It had gotten better as he got older, but it was still prevalent when he got angry. Unfortunately, thinking about that brought every memory of every fight they had ever had into his head. Some were stupid couple fights about doing dishes, taking out the trash. Others were more serious. The worst fight they ever had was about Yuri missing a particularly important exhibit because he got too into choreographing his free skate. It wasn’t his fault he lost track of time. It wasn’t like he had a watch when he was on the ice. Remembering that fight in particular make the young russian choke up once again. He pulled the pillow more into his face. Maybe if he held it tight enough the lack of oxygen would suffocate him?

His phone vibrating one more time forced the male to remove his tear stained face from the pillow beneath him. Yuri let a little bit of the tension go from his shoulders when he saw the name of the sender. Beka Altin, aka a totally different headache considering the context. Still, that was the one person he he couldn’t leave a message from waiting, so he quickly conjured up a half-assed reply. Within seconds, he received another message from the same person. Yuri didn’t know why it happened, or how for that matter, but the conversation managed to completely avoid the cause of Yuri’s distress, and instead focused solely on trying to come up with ways to make it better.

Apparently, even after a few years without seeing each other, this damned kazakh still knew him just way too well. It was a very Otabek thing to do; to never touch on the personal matters that people wanted to keep to themselves, but still provide streams of logic to help connect the person in question to short-term solutions. He never actually asked what had happened, only asking if Yuri was ok or not; he asked if Yuri was safe, or had people where he was who could support him. So when Yuri had mentioned that he was technically now homeless, he really shouldn’t have been surprised by the next message to pop up on his phone.

_“Come to Almaty.”_

It didn’t take much convincing. It was April, so he wasn’t worrying about any upcoming competitions. He didn’t exactly have other friends to spend time with, only his rather obnoxious ring mates. Now he didn’t have to worry about paying rent anymore, so that wasn’t holding him back either. He could easily get someone to take care of his cat while he was gone, just like when he went away for competitions. Plus, he had visited Otabek before. It had only been once, and years ago, but still. The only thing that was nerve wracking about spontaneously buying a one-way plane ticket to Kazakhstan, was that he hadn’t actually met Otabek face to face in about four years. They had met at the Grand Prix Final then, but then the kazakh man didn’t make it to the finals again, and then faced an early retirement. Yuri still didn’t know why. It didn’t seem like Otabek wanted to talk about it, so they didn’t. Now it had been so long since either of them had met in person, despite messaging so often. Life just seemed to always get in the way of doing much more than that.

The feeling of the painkillers kicking in and dulling out his headache was a blessing. With that throbbing done with, Yuri was finally able to get comfortable beneath his blankets. He had a feeling his grandfather wasn’t about to bother him. Yuri curled himself around one of the pillows in his bed. He didn’t feel like doing anything today. Was it possible to sleep off a breakup? Guess he was going to find out…


	2. Trip to Somewhere

**Yuri - Age 22**

Otabek Altin… That name alone brought up way too many feelings, and the four hour plane ride wasn’t nearly long enough to think it all through. The older skater - now former skater, if Yuri actually thought about it - was just a flood of memories. They had apparently met when they were children, not that Yuri actually remembered that. That was something he was always a bit insecure about, oddly enough. For some reason the fact that those memories were only a one way street left a bad taste in his mouth. But, they had met again later in life, when they were both teenagers. So, yes. His friendship with Otabek was the longest he had.

Oh man. “Friend” was an awkward word to use now. Maybe the recent breakup was the reason these thoughts came to mind, but Yuri was instantly reminded of one summer a few years back. It didn’t help that the only time Yuri had ever gone to Almaty was that one summer.

Yuri stuffed his suitcase in the overhead-bin before squeezing passed a stranger to his seat by the window. He sat down, situating himself with his backpack by his feet, his phone was gripped in his hand, his headphones hanging around his neck. The man stared out the window at the runway, letting his mind wander. It wasn’t able to stop the flood of memories, some of which made his stomach queasy.  

 

* * *

 

**Yuri - Age 16**

“Beka!” A seventeen year old Yuri Plisetsky ran past the customs exit, his leopard print suitcase in tow, straight to the dark haired man waiting with a smile and two to-go cups in either hand. His run was awkward. Five hours on a plane had left his body stiff.

“Hey Yura.” Otabek handed one of the to-go cups to the teen. Once one hand was free, the two managed a side-hug, before clearing away from the mess of people all trying to leave the airport. “Is that all you brought?” He asked, looking at the singular suitcase and backpack the other had.

“Yeah.” The blonde shrugged. “I’m only here for two weeks, and I figured I can wash clothes while I’m here.” He took a sip of the drink Otabek had handed him, delighted to find out it was hot chocolate. That was perfect.

“I remembered that you don’t like coffee.” The kazakh gulped down the remainder of his own drink, finishing it off just before the pair reached a trashcan. They stopped at a bench to the side, allowing Yuri a moment to put his passport back in his backpack. While they were stopped, and Yuri’s hot chocolate was on a bench rather than in his hand, and two took the time to have one proper hug, before Yuri flung his bag over his shoulders once more.

He let Otabek lead the way out of the Almaty International Airport, and out to the parking garage. He was expecting a large, black motorcycle, the very one that had driven him away in multiple cities around Europe. Instead, Yuri found himself climbing into the passenger seat of a green four-seater car, while Otabek jammed his suitcase into the trunk. “New wheels?”

“Borrowing it from a friend.” Otabek slammed the trunk shut, then maneuvered over to the drivers door. He sat behind the wheel. “Can't exactly fit a suitcase on a bike.”

“Oh… True.” That certainly was logical. Yuri didn't even think about that. Must be the jet lag. “I could have taken a taxi.”

“No.” The older of the two turned the key in the ignition, and began to pull out of the parking spot. “The cab drivers here are sketchy. They’ll force you into unregistered cabs and drive around in circles to charge you more.”

“Really?” Yuri was almost in disbelief. It only made him more thankful for the ride. He leaned his head against the window of the car. His stare shifted from the fast passing scenery, to the silent man sitting in the seat next to him.

Otabek looked the same as he always had. While two years had gone by, the height difference between them hasn't changed, although both had gotten a little taller. As always, the kazakh’s jaw was hard and square. His eyes were narrowed, focused on the road in front of him, with thick eyebrows knit together. As per usual, Otabek’s casual clothes were mostly neutral colors. His familiar black leather jacket fitted to his torso. At twenty years old, he was at his physical prime, a fact that Yuri didn't let go unnoticed. The shadows caused by the buildings and trees they passed made the light that shines in past the car windows seem brighter. For a split second, Yuri couldn't help but think that Otabek looked really good in sunlight.

Yuri’s music was blaring in his headphones. For all he knew, the guy in the plane seat next to him could hear his music. He didn’t care. He knew his taste in music was likely confusing though. Skating and ballet had filled his playlists with classical, while his own personal tastes tended to lean more towards punk rock. Those clashing genres were met with an odd assortment of different songs he’d heard in passing while traveling to various countries for competitions; song that he had kind of liked just enough to think about downloading them. Rather than setting his MP3 player to any specific playlist, Yuri just put all of his music on shuffle. As a result, his ears were assaulted with an odd mix of the clusterfuck of music he had collected over the years.

Before traveling, the russian man had gone through the trouble of going through each and every song, and deleting the ones he just knew he couldn’t listen to right now, or ever again for that matter. Every single “our song” was hastily removed without a second thought. Regardless of whether or not the song itself was emotional, if they were even slightly provocative of memories Yuri really didn’t want to bring back into existence, it was eighty-sixed. Some songs were hard to let go of; embarrassingly enough, a lot of Lana Del Rey was deleted. Yuri cursed that damned french boy for downloading her albums in the first place.

He remembered that day much more vividly than he would have liked. Yuuri was scheduled to compete in the Trophée de France in the Grand Prix series two years back. It always took place in Paris, and his boy-- _ex-_ boyfriend was still living in Nantes at the time. Since Yuri wasn’t expected to compete for another two week afterwards, he had gotten permission from Yakov to take a few days to relax.

They had decided to road trip in order to save money. Yuri didn’t know how to drive. There was no reason for him to learn in the first place. Instead he played DJ. The fate of the aux chord was in his hands, but he could be reasonable on occasion, so before the competition even came around, he had asked for suggestions. What he had received, was a long list of American pop-stars that he had absolutely no interest in. Many of them he actively hated. But, he had loved the guy, so he downloaded shitty album after shitty album. He had played them on repeat for a _guy_. When he had wanted to listen to his routine songs on repeat so that he could commit each beat to memory, he had instead allowed Taylor Swift and Nick Jonas taint his bluetooth speakers. Unfortunately, that kind of music was annoyingly catchy. Way too many times Yuri had found himself singing those very songs in the shower.

Now, Yuri blasted a back-alley russian punk band he had found when he was still competing in the junior division. The familiar guitar riffs drowned out the sound of the plane’s engine and the screaming infant a few rows back. The nostalgia was amusing, but even what was likely ten years later, Yuuri still couldn’t help but think that these bands were still some of his favorites.

The only times Yuri removed his headphones were to talk to the flight attendants when they were going through the aisles, taking orders for refreshments, and when he decided to tie his hair up. His blond hair now reached just passed his shoulders. While he usually just tied the shorter hairs back, as he had been doing since he was young - what could he say? It was easy - sometimes the twenty two year old went through the extra effort of braiding it. If he was feeling extra motivated, he would make an attempt at complex, Pinterest-level artsy braids. Right now, he focused more on braiding his bangs on either side, tying the two braids together in the back.

Yuri had thought about just chopping it all off. It couldn’t hurt, could it? That was something people did after a break-up… Right? It was something akin to starting fresh. He could use something like that. A makeover of sorts. He had already started changing around his wardrobe, getting rid of any clothing that just carried way too many memories within it. Clothes that had belonged to _him_ ended up in the trash. Before packing his bags, Yuri had gone to the mall, and bought all new clothing to take with him. Overall, he had been wearing just about the same style since his junior high years. While his love of animal patterns, printed tees hadn’t changed.

The blond man looked down at his current outfit. For the sake of comfort on a long flight, he was wearing a familiar pair of black jeans, as well as an oversized gray sweater that Katsuki had given him as a Christmas present last winter. The sweater was a few sizes too large, with sleeves that spilled over to his fingertips; the Japanese skater had said it was so he could grow into it. At twenty-two years old, Yuri highly doubted he was about to grow anymore. The thought was appreciated anyways. Besides, the material was extremely soft against his skin. While he hated to admit it, it was one of the most comfortable sweaters he owned. It wasn't anything he would normally wear out. The outfit itself was much too plain.

He zoned out into his music, fumbling the material of the sweater between his thumb and forefinger. He turned up the volume in an attempt to drown out the snoring of the man next to him, and chatter of the surrounding people. At least first class allowed for large enough seats that he didn't have to worry about accidentally touching the person next to him.

The only reason he removed his headphones was when flight attendants came through the aisles, offering drinks and food. Yuri asked for a ginger ale, a method of easing his stomach from the turbulence that was bound to occur, as well as received a complimentary glass of champagne. Another reason why he always splurged for first class, was the food. Regardless of what airline, the food you received on a plane was never really top quality. But, first class food was every so slightly better. Even that small margin made a world of difference. A blue, plastic tray with a little plate of roast beef and mushrooms was placed down in front of him. He only picked at it, not really being all that hungry, but knowing better than to waste food. Food came in three awkward courses, with a poorly seasoned roast chicken and raw vegetables as the main course, and ending in vanilla icecream.

By the time he was done eating, there was still two hours left in his flight. Yuri shuffled through his playlists on his mp3 player. He selected a quieter playlist, one that he knew wouldn’t suddenly start playing heavy metal, before he dug through the comfort packet in a little compartment attached to the back of the seat in front of him. He unfolded the blanket, surprised to find it actually rather soft, and laid it across his lap. The cheap pillow was given a few fluffs before being wedged between the side of his head, and the wall of the airplane. Lastly, he pulled the provided sleep mask over his eyes, and let himself doze off.

Yuri woke up to a flight attendant nudging his shoulder. He removed the sleep mask, and looked up at her. There was a very good chance he was giving her quite the death glare; he wasn’t exactly known for being in a good mood right after waking up.

“Excuse me sir.” She said. She spoke in english, but her russian accent was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Чτо?” He responded in russian.

There was a slight expression of relief on her face, as she switched into their native tongue. _“We’re landing soon, sir. Could you please recline your chair?”_

 _“Yeah. Sure.”_ The blonde sat up straight. He pulled off the complimentary blanket and knocked the pillow to the ground, before reaching between his seat and adjusting it so that it was upright again.

The landing was just about as smooth as chunky peanut butter. They hit a lot of turbulence in the last few minutes in the air, which certainly didn’t help the process. The whole plane rocked a little when the tire hit the pavement of the runway, but they all made it in one piece so Yuri wasn’t going to complain. The second the seatbelt light turned off, the blond was on his feat. After being on the plane for so long the young man was antsy. Sure, it wasn't the longest flight he had ever had, it was much easier than the flights to the United States, or Canada, but it was long enough. Once Yuri managed to push himself into the aisle, he reached into the overhead compartment and pulled down his suitcase, extending the handle, then flinging his backpack over his shoulder, before beginning the molasses crawl to exit the plain. Once outside of the gate, he handed his voucher for a gate-checked bag to one of the hostesses, who then retrieved his Russian flag-print skate bag for him.

Some airports had personality. Tokyo International Airport was similar to a large-scale shopping mall. The airport in Las Vegas had slot machines by the gates. Heathrow was just known for being massive. The Almaty International Airport, on the other hand, was just about as stereotypical as an airport could get. White tile lines the floor, and random, nonsensical artwork was on otherwise plain, white walls.

Yuri wasted no time hopping on the free wifi. He still had cell service; years of competing internationally had him signed up for a world-wide plane with his cellphone provider for as long as he could remember. Still, he didn’t want to use up all of his data. He followed the flow of arrivals, sending a quick text to his grandfather to say he landed, shooting one to Yakov as well, and, of course, one to Otabek. Within seconds, his text alert went off, and the new message appeared on his screen.

_“I’m waiting in the main lobby. Have fun in customs.”_

A jolt, feeling something akin to an electric shock, bared down into Yuri’s stomach. It was an unsettling feeling. He couldn’t tell if it was excitement or a last minute rush of anxiety. Every step through the terminal, leading up to the security checkpoint before customs was heavier than the next. The thin layer of his socks didn’t stop the cold from the tile floor as he loaded all of his belongings into a tray so that they could go through the x-ray machine. He fished his documentation for his figure skates out of his skate bag and handed it to the security guard.

The one downside to traveling with figure skates was that they were essentially large, metal blades. Not the easiest to sneak through airport security. So every time he traveled, Yuri had to carry proof that he was a professional skater, and it was necessary for him to take his skates with him. There was always one or two guards who wanted to have a conversation with him about it. Luckily, these kazakh officers didn’t seem to make a very big deal out of it.

It was hard to tell what expression was on the twenty-two year old’s face. Even if he caught his own reflection to see, Yuri wasn’t so sure even he would be able to distinguish it. The weight he felt in the corners of his eyes pointed to exhaustion, but the way his eyebrows knit together, and how his teeth worried with his lower lip, he probably looked distressed. Not to say he wasn’t excited. He couldn’t wait to get through this line; on the other side was a vacation from the stress of being back home. At the same time, on the other side was Otabek.

By the time Yuri got to the final customs line, he was beyond impatient. A day of traveling took out a toll on anyone, even an experienced traveler like himself. The line was long, and he was frustrated. The blond could see well enough through the weaved line to see past the final checkpoint. There was large black text on the white wall behind the passport check booths.

_Қазақстан қош келдіңіз_

_Добро пожаловать в Казахстан_

_Welcome to Kazakhstan_


	3. Welcome to Almaty

**Yuri - 22**

The main lobby of the arrivals dock was teeming with people. Some were large travel groups who were waiting for the rest of their companions to go through the final security check, others were families and friends taking way longer than necessary to greet their loved ones. There were also quite a few men in suits awkwardly standing around with placards that had different names written on them. Yuri thanked his luck that he was taller now than he was when he was sixteen, otherwise he would have had way too much trouble pushing himself through the mob.

He had to go searching for Otabek. Rather than waiting right by the front, the kazakh had sent him a text, saying he was by some sandwich stand, because it was away from the crowd some. Yuri cursed under his breath as he pulled his suitcase along. As he got farther through the airport, the space began to clear out more, until he finally had a decent radius of personal space. He didn’t remember the airport being this large, but maybe they had undergone a renovation or something. He started growing impatient as he turned the corner. But then, underneath a poorly drawn sign for discount toasted subs, was Otabek.

The man stood, leaning against a wall, presumably flipping through his phone. His pitch black hair was still kept in the usual undercut, with his bangs slicked back. Even after six and a half years had passed, the man hadn’t changed his hairstyle in the slightest. The only obvious and visible difference was in the man’s clothing. Otabek wore a pair of black jeans, with a navy blue t shirt on top. The shirt had some symbol that Yuri didn’t recognize, but he presumed it was the logo for the company that designed it. Slung over the kazakhs’ forearm was a gray coat.

“Beka!” Yuri called when he was within earshot of the man.

He could see Otabek lift his head instantly, cellphone being shoved into a pants pocket. A smile cracked Otabek’s features, disturbing the sharp edged of his face. It wasn’t until now that it was visible that the man had some tension in his face, but even that disappeared as his eyebrows unknit from one another. “Hey.”

“Is that all you have to say?” Yuri teased his friend.  He now stood in front of the man, and offered a light punch to the older man’s shoulder.

A deep chuckle broke out between Otabek’s lips. “Welcome to Kazakhstan, Yura. How was your flight?”

“I guess it was ok. I slept for most of it.” Yuri shrugged. He paid enough attention to noticed that they had both easily slipped into Russian, not complaining in the slightest. He started to adjust his backpack and skate bag on his shoulders.

“Want me to carry anything?”

Yuri didn’t hesitate to drop the handle of his suitcase into Otabek’s hand. Normally he would have carried his own stuff, but after the long flight, he just didn’t feel like it. That, and while he knew Otabek wasn’t about to do anything to his skates, Yuri felt a whole lot more comfortable holding onto those himself. Besides, he knew Otabek wasn’t about to complain.

He watched Otabek shift the article of clothing he had been holding from one arm to the other, adjusting so that he could pull the suitcase with his non-dominant hand. There wasn’t exactly a word to describe how Yuri felt when he saw that gray hoodie. He was partially offended by its existence, partially irritated, and unadmittedly sullen. He knew it was a replacement for the black leather jacket that had once been a signature to the other skater. Yuri wouldn’t have been the first to admit that when he was younger, that leather jacket had made his mouth do more than water.

For no intelligible reason, several memories of that old leather jacket flashed back into Yuri’s memory like images off of that old View Master toy japanese Yuuri had shown him.  More than anything, he remembered swimming in the heavy material. His sixteen year old body had been much too small to fit it.

Yuri forced the thoughts into the back of his mind. He didn’t need to be thinking about things like that now. “So then, where too?”

“Are you hungry?” Otabek turned slightly, signalling for the two of them to start walking. The older of the two lead the way through the remainder of the airport. “We can get food on the way to my place, or if you want to just wait, I made sure to go to the grocery store just the other day.”

“I can wait.” Yuri said before a yawn broke his mouth open. “What I really need is a nap.”

“You said you slept on the plane.” A thick eyebrow was corked up in amusement.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t sleep more.” The blonde shrugged. “You of all people should understand my jet lag, Beka.”

“I never had much of a problem with that before.”

“Oh yeah. Right.” He had forgotten about that. It was a gift that some people were blessed with, and Yuri certainly wasn’t one of those people. Jet lag tended to smack him in the face and make him even more irritable than usual.

Otabek looked briefly at a watch on his wrist. “We can just have an easy night in then.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The pair weaved through the crowd, and eventually found their way to the parking lot. They had to ride an elevator up a few floors, then walk halfway across the lot before they got to a black Renault Duster. The truck was familiar in style; it was a pretty popular car in Russia right now. This particular truck though, was well known to Yuri from the many photos that had appeared on Instagram. But even before pictures of this car in front of different landmarks, nightclubs, and skating rinks appeared on social media, Yuri knew this car. He had been on the phone with Otabek when the man had decided to retire his old Harley Davidson in exchange for something more practical. Both of them were sad to see the bike go, but it had been way past its prime.

After loading up all of Yuri’s luggage into the trunk, the two men climbed into the front two seats. Yuri sunk into the cloth seats. Once seated,he took the opportunity to stretch out his arms and legs. They made small talk as they drove. Otabek asked about Yuri’s grandfather, about Yakov and Lilia, and, of course, about Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki. Obviously, Yuri answered.

“They’re both enjoying themselves.” He began to explain, talking on the subject of Viktor and Yuuri. “Viktor’s still enjoying coaching. We’re all pretty sure he’s going to take over for Yakov pretty soon. The old man is about to retire.”

“Really?” Otabek almost sounded surprised. “I guess that makes sense though. How old is he again?”

“Um…” Oh man. Yuri hadn’t even thought about the exact number in forever. “I think almost eighty?” The response from Otabek was a low whistle. “I’m pretty sure the only reason he hasn’t retired yet is because of me. I’m the only one left that is exclusively under him.”

“Makes sense.” Otabek didn’t take his eyes off the road. He merged onto the main highway. As the car went around a wide bend, the skyline of Almaty became more visible, with the backdrop of mountains in the background. Even at this time of year, they were still snow capped.

Yuri didn’t miss the opportunity to crack the window open and steal a picture. There was a sheen of smaug visible in the picture, but he fixed it up with the perfect filter before posting it to both his Instagram and Twitter.  


_Yuri-Plisetsky_

_Yuri-Plisetsky  ‘Just arrived in #Almaty…. #kazakhstan #travel_

 

Notifications for likes and comments appeared instantly.

As the two talked about the various people back home, the russian man began realize that he hadn’t actually told many people he was coming to Kazakhstan. It had been such a last minute trip for him. He told his grandfather, obviously, and had asked Yakov for the time off, but otherwise hadn’t told a single one of his rink mates, former or otherwise. Oh well. His social media updates would let everyone who mattered, and everyone who didn’t, knew exactly where he was.

The highway scenery eventually changed into a more urban setting. It was going to be hard to get used to seeing the Cyrillic alphabet, but not being able to understand a single word of it. Usually when Yuri traveled, the language was so different that he didn’t have even the slightest interest in understanding them. However with the kazakh language, it was far too tempting to glance at a sign, only to find himself completely befuddled as to what the heck it said. Otabek steared the car into what looked like a neighborhood of apartment complexes. None of them were higher than four floors. All of them had white stone exteriors that had been stained by years of dirt and pollution until they appeared more a dingy gray.

Yuri recognized the neighborhood, albeit vaguely. Even after all these years, Otabek hadn’t moved even once. So a part of Yuri’s brain was currently trying to piece apart which street corners he knew from his last trip here as a teenager, and which ones he knew from Snapchats.

Eventually, Otabek pulled into what had originally looked like an alley way, but actually opened up into a small parking lot behind his apartment complex. Without having to be asked, the twenty twenty-six year old man removed the leopard-print suitcase from his car’s trunk, and carried it as he lead the way to apartment.

He lived on the second floor, in a one bedroom apartment, and while it was relatively simplistic, it was nice. The first thing you saw when you walked in was the kitchen on the left, which was made into a corner of white tile floors and dark cabinets. The space was completely open to the rest of the living space, save for a white granite counter that acted like a bar to separate the kitchen from the main room. On the right were doors that lead into the bathroom and a hallway closet. The rest of the floors were rustic wood paneling. Otabek had arranged a large, light gray carpet on the floor of the living room. It went well with the white walls and black furniture. A large black leather couch sat across from a fifty inch television, with a coffee table in between. He didn’t have a dining table or anything like that, instead just had a few bar stools by the kitchen counter. The space instead was left empty, but along the walls were two large shelves; one a bookshelf, the other containing trophies, medals, and picture frames of family and friends. The farthest wall had a door that led onto a small balcony. In the back corner, on the wall next to the TV, was a door that lead into the only bedroom.

“Feel free to make yourself at home.” The kazakh man dropped Yuri’s suitcase on the floor besides the bookshelves. “Sorry I don’t have a guest bedroom, but the couch is actually really comfortable.”

“Hey man, thanks for even having me in the first place.” Yuri shrugged his backpack off on top of his suitcase. He was a bit more careful putting down  his skate bag.

Otabek nodded, before moving around his home. “I already set aside a towel for you in the bathroom, it’s folded on the counter. If you want to hang any clothes up, I don’t use the hall closet except to hold a broom, so you can put anything you want in there.”

“Thanks.” Yuri looked around. He was pretty sure he remembered the cabinets being a different color. The trophy shelf was new. Otabek had never been one to flaunt his winnings in the past. The russian man was quick to notice pictures from skating competitions. Of course he was, he was in most of those. A large group photo from both of their first Grand Prix Final was among the many from various competitions worth immortalizing in a photograph. Yuri had the exact same photo at packed up in a cardboard box at his grandfather’s house. It was the same photo that japanese Yuuri and Viktor had in their living room. That thai skater Phichit had taken it directly after the medal ceremony, so everyone who had been competing in the men’s division, plus a few extra - Viktor for one, plus Mila, those Italian twins, and their weird friend - were all striking a pose. Yuri passed over looking at the pictures of Otabek’s friends from home, well, friends from _here_.

“Are you hungry?”

When Yuri turned around, the older man was in the kitchen, sorting through a cupboard he had opened. He watched, taking in all of the physical differences. He had been calling Otabek his best friend since he was fifteen years old; it was a title he wouldn’t dare give to anyone else. But in this moment, he was realizing just how much not seeing someone for a few years could do. The man in the kitchen wasn’t taller, but he had more muscle in his upper half. At a glance, the kazakh wasn’t as dark and punk-esk as he had been all those years ago. He looked good; healthy.

Yuri walked up towards the kitchen, and slid himself onto one of the bar stools.

“Yeah.”

 


	4. Lets Ride

Yuri - Age 16

“This is fucking gross.” Yuri looked down at the chunks of boiled meat on his plate. While they looked unoffending, the sixteen year-old new better. He picked at a block with the end of his fork, stabbing through it, and holding it up. His eyes squinted at it. “I don’t trust it.”

“You said you wanted to try traditional kazakh food.” Otabek took a sip of water.

“I can’t believe you actually eat horse meat though.” The teenager eyes the meat on his plate once more. Beshbarmak was apparently a normal dish here, and yes, Yuri had said he wanted to taste the local cuisine some. It was his first time in Kazakhstan after all. They had even decided to go out to a local restaurant; a small, family run place just around the corner; Otabek had vouched for the quality of the food. But the feeling in the pit of his stomach was starting to make him second guess his decision. While he had never exactly been a picky eater, the young russian was never all that adventurous. He liked to stick with what he knew.

“You know you’re supposed to eat it with your hands, right?” The fellow skater, sitting across the restaurant table from him, had a bemused smirk on his face.

“I’ll eat this shit, but I’m drawing the line at touching it.”

The deep chuckle that slipped past Otabek’s lips didn’t go unnoticed. It was like velvet and gravel at the same time. Yuri watched carefully as a tanned hand reached into their shared platter of food and picked up a sizable piece of meat between his fingers, making sure to pick up some of the thin dough and onion along with it. He ate it without hesitation. Yuri couldn’t help himself from watching the movement of that older skater’s jaw. 

“See?” Otabek said after swallowing. “It’s easy.”

It was hard to believe. Yuri took one last offending look at the dish before him, then picked up his fork. The teen poked at the meat with the spokes, before stabbing through. He lifted it cautiously, eyeing it as though it might come alive to bite back. The worst part was, that the Beshbarmak actually looked normal over all. If Otabek hadn’t told him what it was, he probably never would have guessed. In one, fast paced motion, Yuri screwed his eyes shut and forced to food into his mouth. His eyes stayed shut, his brows creased as he chewed, trying to concentrate on the flavors that hit his tongue. If he were to try and describe it, the closest thing he could think of what beef. The meat itself was a little sweeter, and the dough of the dough tasted more like a mushy noodle. But the flavor all together actually, surprisingly, wasn’t horrible. Yuri finally swallowed, opening his eyes to see Otabek leaning over the table in anticipation of the younger male’s reaction. “Well… I guess it’s not bad…”

A grin spread onto the darker boy’s features. “Glad you like it.”

The blond teen picked up his glass of cola and took in a larger gulp than he probably should have. He coughed once as the carbonation hit the back of his throat a bit too suddenly. The best part of the off season was being able to drink all the sugary drinks he wanted without Lillia bitching him out about watching his weight. Yuri held his glass in his left hand, picking his fork back up with his right and picking up another chunk of the traditional food. He hadn’t finished chewing when he took another sip of soda. 

Conversation carried on with the usual business; How’s everyone back in Russia? How’s your cat doing? I saw that your season ended well. Congrats on placing at Nationals. The usual. As they talked, Yuri couldn’t help himself. His eyes automatically followed along the slight upward curl in the corners of Otabek’s eyes. The guy clearly found Yuri’s initial struggle of ‘to eat or not to eat’ amusing. Normally, Yuri would have found himself peeved and bitter knowing that someone was making fun of him. Otabek was different though. It was probably just that they were friends. Friends messed with each other. It happened.

After eating, the two skaters split the bill. As they stood up, Otabek reached under his seat, picking two motorcycle helmets off the floor. One was passed over to the other. “You ready to go?”

A large grin cracked across the russian’s face as he reached over to grab the helmet by the straps. “Hell yeah. Let’s tear up the town Beka.”

“We’re not tearing up the town tonight.” Otabek lead the way out of the restaurant, and around back to the small parking lot. 

Yuri halted where he stood on the sidewalk. “The fuck, Beka? I thought the point of me being here was so we could do a bunch of probably illegal things without two old Russian’s breathing down my neck?”

“Did you not hear me?” The older teen threw a motorcycle helmet at the younger. “I said we’re not doing it tonight. You’re jetlagged and tired. So we’re going to go back to my place, and you’re going to sleep.”

“So then… Tomorrow?” There was a hopeful tint to the question. It wasn’t like he had only come to Almaty to party like a wild animal, but it was certainly on his To Do list for this trip. After all, what was the point of coming all the way here, alone, without Yakov, Lilia, or a gross interracial couple watching his every move? Yuri strapped on his helmet, hearing the click of the clasp before double checking that it was secure. He watched Otabek mount his bike, a Harley Davidson Street 750, effortlessly swinging a leg over the body of it and sitting firm in the black leather seat. 

“I’ve got a gig tomorrow.” The key was placed in the ignition and the engine roared to life. “I know the owner of the club really well, and everyone who works there. If I tell them you’re with me, they won’t even mark the back of your hands. They let me drink all the time. Sometimes I get free drinks for playing.”

A large grin split Yuri’s face in half. That’s what he liked to hear. He approached the motorcycle, hoping onto the small back leather ridge just over the back tire. The bike had a double seat, but only barely. It really didn’t look like it was made for two, but there was enough room for Yuri’s small frame to fit. Otabek had put in a set of footpegs on either side, just above the exhaust pipes. The combination of that, and the small leather strap on the seat, Yuri wasn’t even remotely worried about falling off. “Can we ride around for a while?” 

The question slipped out without thinking. Otabek peered over his shoulder, not yet pulling out of their parking spot. “You sure you’ll stay awake?”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Come on. I’ll be fine. I haven’t gotten to see a lot of Almaty yet, and the back of your bike seems like the best way to do it.”

There was a moment of silence between the two as Otabek thought the proposition over. “Ok.” He said at last. “You might need to hold on tight though. Road quality isn’t exactly consistent here, and other drivers are even worse.”

Instead of replying, Yuri just scooted forward in his seat. He gripped what little space there was left on the seat between him and Otabek. To his shock though, Otabek let out a huff of air. The kazakh reached behind himself, grabbing one of Yuri’s hands, pulling it from the bike seat, and securing it to his own belt. “You can hold on to that. It’ll be easier.” 

Once it was clear that Yuri was secured on the back, Otabek kicked off the parking brake, shifting into riding position. There was virtually no traffic on the block, so after revving up the engine, they sped into the streets of Almaty. Wind quickly picked up, wiping through a few stray blonde hairs despite having tied the longer hairs into a ponytail that was shoved under a helmet. It was easy to take in the passing building and the site of city lights flickering on as the sun had been going down while riding through; much easier than it had been in a car at least. All Yuri had to do was turn his head, and look. They slowed to round a corner, and Yuri watched as a large group of what looked like twenty-somethings stood around on the sidewalk outside of a restaurant. Some of them passed around a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Not even seconds later, they were at fifty kilometers per hour, with Otabek expertly weaving around slower cars. It was pretty clear that he had memorized every turn they took, and Yuri realized it was quite possible that this was just a way he drove a lot when he took his bike out for a little fun. 

They reached a roundabout. It was halfway around the bend of it when Yuri suddenly felt unstable. While he knew he wasn’t about to fall off, inertia pulled at his body, causing a gap between him and Otabek that was just a little too wide for his comfort. Reacting on instinct, Yuri leaned forward. His arms rushed to leave Otabek’s belt, and instead wrap around his waist. Each hand gripped the opposite wrist. His chest was forced to be flush with the wide back of Otabek’s leather jacket. The young teen subconsciously squeezed tighter. It brought his face in close so that he turned his head, allowing his cheek to press into the rough material. That scent of worn leather lingered in Yuri’s nostrils with each inhale. 

Chances are, Yuri should have reacted differently. The second they had left the roundabout, and returned to less curved roads, he should have gone back to his previous position. But this was so much more comfortable; much more sturdy. So he held on. Staring past blurring lights and the beginnings of the cities nightlife, and allowing everything to site and sound to just blur together.


	5. Was This Smart?

**Yuri - Age 22**

Plates clinked together in the sink as Otabek cleaned up after dinner. While Yuri wanted to help out, feeling a little bad since Otabek had been the one to cook and everything, his time was best spent unpacking. He didn’t feel like living out of his suitcase, especially since he wasn’t sure how long he was staying. It would be much easier to keep track of clean versus dirty clothing if he had a consistent way to separate them. Besides, Otabek had offered his the hallway closet, so he might as well take advantage of it.

He spent the entire time thinking; not like he hadn’t done a lot of that since his breakup. It was a different feeling when he was putting his clothes away though. While Yuri wouldn’t call himself neat or tidy in any way, cleaning had always been a bit of a therapeutic action. It was like every item that he picked up and put back into its place represented another thought being sorted, and problem dealt with. Directly after getting over that hangover the day after being dumped, Yuri had deep cleaned the entire house. It had left his grandfather both pleased and concerned, knowing full well that it was a sign of conflict in the young man, but also being quite content at the dust-free environment. 

So now stood Yuri, his suitcase at his feet, as he organized garments onto extra hangers that Otabek had. There were two shelves at the top of the closet, the top of which Yuri was only barely able to reach, where he sorted folded up pants and underwear. He took his time with each item, hyperfocused on the feeling of the fabric between his thumb and forefinger as he arranged the tops by type. He had a system that he liked so that he could always find what he wanted. Lighter articles, such at tank tops and shirts were on the left, while heavier pieces, such as jackets and sweaters, were on the left. The middle was occupied usually by button downs. Within each category, items were arranged by how heavy their fabrics were; lighter fabrics on the left, heavier on the right.

As he held a cardigan in his left hand, the right flipping through items he had already hung up, he hear Otabek’s voice break through the comfortable silence of the apartment. 

“I didn’t know you wore clothes like that.” 

The comment wasn’t startling, but it brought Yuri out of his thoughts and back into reality. He looked down at the chasmer in his hands. It was true that Yuri Plisetsky, the renowned “Ice Tiger of Russia” was most often seen in loud patterns and accessories, specifically animal prints, leather, and studs. But the majority of the clothing that this “tiger” was unpacking here soft colors; pastels. The cardigan that he currently held would be considered odd enough for being a cardigan. It didn’t exactly fit his punk persona. The apparel was a light rosy-peach color. He had gotten it because it went well with a sky blue denim button down shirt he had purchased the same day. At the time, he had liked the way the ensemble looked on the mannequin with white pants. The sweater itself was beyond soft. “I decided to change my wardrobe up.”

There was another short silence. Oh, Otabek must be done washing dishes. “When did this change happen?”

The question sent an inexplicable shudder through Yuri. “Right after my relationship status did.” The twenty-two year old finally slid the cardigan on a hanger, placing it next to similar items of clothing in the closet. “I just needed a fresh start I guess.”

“You still have that old tiger sweater though.” From where Otabek leaned over the kitchen counter, he could see the black sweater with a large, now faded, tiger head in the center. It was the same one the russian had gotten on that first venture to Hasetsu seven years ago. At the time it had been oversized because of Yuri’s short stature, now it would have fit a bit more snugly, if not for the fact that year of wear had stretched the cotton out. “That’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.” A smile fought back onto Yuri’s face. Yeah. He loved that sweater a lot. Besides being beyond comfortable, it just held a lot of memories.

“Still,” Otabek broke through the through. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for pastels. I bet they’ll look good on you, but I’m a bit surprised.”

“Times have changed.” 

There was a very good chance that Yuri was overthinking everything, but right now that was just what he wanted to do. Times really had changed, and through that, so had he. It was obvious enough to say that relationships, both platonic and romantic, had changed over the years. Since he was fifteen, he had made a few new friends, but for each one he made, he lost another. Most of the people he had gotten close to were somehow involved in the skating world. But Yuri had entered the senior division so young. The vast majority of the people he skated against, and thus became decent friends with, were older than him by a handful of years. So, as it happens, most, if not all, had retired by now. Sure, a lot of people younger than him had also debuted, and some of them were alright, but it wasn’t uncommon for a few of them to only last one season. 

Out of the people he had met and become close with in the skating world, the only ones he still held consistent contact with were Viktor and Yuuri - the two came in a pair, and it was hard to escape Viktor now that the man was the lead coach at the Russian team rink, aka, he was Yuri’s coach now -, Otabek, Mila, who was still competing, and surprisingly enough, Guang Hong Ji. He wasn’t exactly able to explain why, maybe it was because they were actually the closest in age out of everyone he competed with, maybe it was because they both worshiped their social media accounts, but the two had for some reason become pretty consistent text buddies. 

Nonetheless, even with those relationships, things changed. Even with Otabek… Perhaps especially with Otabek. They were such good friends in the beginning, and Yuri would never call the older man anything but his best pal, and yet… After that first summer together, the one where they just did way too much way too quickly… Maybe it wasn’t really possible to get over all of that. It had certainly been trying for that first year afterwards. Though they had still texted almost daily, spent as much time together as they could when they happened to be scheduled for the same competitions, and had a pretty impressive streak on Snapchat for quite a while, there was no doubt that they weren’t at the level they used to be. Yuri remembered looking up the assignments for the Grand Prix series just three years ago and seeing that the Hero of Kazakhstan's name was nowhere to be found. In anger, he had called to ask what was up with that. Right now, he couldn’t remember the response he had gotten, but he remembered not liking it. Otabek never competed again.

Yet, here Yuri was. Standing in the man’s living room after being saved from what would have come pretty close to the blond locking himself in his room in his grandfather’s house and never leaving. In the end, Otabek really came in clutch. 

“I’m gonna make some coffee.” The darker male announced. Large arms pushed the body off of the counter it had been leaning against, before the man walked across the kitchen to the coffee pot. “I can boil some water for tea if you want. I’m pretty sure I might have some cocoa powder somewhere around here if you want hot chocolate or something.”

A soft smile passed over Yuri’s face. It was so much nicer being with a friend than it was wallowing in sadness at his grandfather’s. He walked over to the kitchen, hoping up so he sat on top of the cool quartz countertop. “Coffee’s fine.”

“Really?” There was surprise in Otabek’s voice. “I didn’t know you could drink coffee now. You always hated it.”

“I adapted.” Yuri shrugged. He leaned back on one palm while his other hand came up and pulled at lose loose strands of hair. “I put a lot of milk and sugar in it, but I don’t super mind the taste anymore.”

“Milk and sugar it is then.” After starting the coffee pot to brew, Otabek reached into his fridge and pulled out a carton of milk, then when through his cabinets until he found a jar of brown sugar. “Hope you don’t mind whole milk.”

“That’s fine.” Yuri only drank skilm. 

“Cool.” The former skater pulled two clean coffee mugs down from another cabinet that had been full of cups, plates, and bowls. “We can go to the grocery store tomorrow if you want to stock up on some food for yourself if you want. 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

“So is there anything in particular you want to do tonight?” Otabek asked. He heard the pot beginning to drip, and kept alternating his attention from it to Yuri. 

“To be honest, I really just want to melt into your couch and watch TV or something.” The younger of the two chuckled. “Time zones have me all out of whack, and I just don’t think I can sleep any time soon.”

“Makes sense.” Eventually the coffee pot finished doing its job. When that moment finally arrived, Otabek poured out two mugs of coffee, leaving plenty of room in one of them for Yuuri to add milk to it. He passed it over to the other, letting Yuri fix his coffee to his liking. It was funny watching him first shovel in two oversized piled of sugar, then fill the rest of the mug with milk. It was even better when Yuri took a large gulp of the drink to make enough room for him to add even more milk to the cup. 

Once they were both happy with their drinks, they relocated from the kitchen, to the couch. It was an immensely comfortable couch, one of those ones where you just sink right into the cushions. It was odd to say this, but Yuri honestly couldn’t wait to sleep on it. It was long enough that he would be able to stretch out on, which was the complete opposite of the twin-sized mattress he’d been sleeping on recently. 

Otabek flicked the TV on using the remote, and it immediately opened up to some soap opera channel. The actors were yelling at each other in Kazakh, you know, usual soap opera drama. Some horribly fake laugh track sounded after what was apparently a joke Yuri had no ability to understand. 

“I’m just gonna let you know now, that I’m judging you profusely for this.” Yuri reached over to grab the remote out of Otabek’s hand. Rudely enough, Otabek leaned away from him, holding the remote up in the air. There was a bent grin across his face. “You’re childish as shit.”

“I’m just playing with you, Yura.” Otabek handed over the remote, which Yuri appropriately snatched.

“Are there any russian channels on here? English works too I guess.” He began flipping through channels.

“Go up about twenty more channels and there are a few international channels.” They watched as different scenes of different programs turned on for only a few moments before Yuri changed the channel again. Eventually he found a few russian channels that he recognized from home. “A few” only meant four, but it was better than nothing. After going back and forth between the four for a solid six minutes before settling on a station that played mostly shitty talk shows. This one happened to have a few actors from some action movie that came out recently. Yuri had gone to see it with Mila and thought it was pretty cool.

The two men sat in relative silence, making comments every so often about what these celebrities were talking about. Despite the caffeine, Yuri couldn't help the yawns that escaped him. Jet lag worked in mysterious ways. 

“You want to sleep?” Otabek asked.

“It’s only eight thirty.” Yuri squinted at the clock on his phone. “If I go to sleep now, I’ll just end up waking up and three am. I’d rather just push through it now than screw up my sleep schedule completely.”

“You have plenty of time to fix it if you do though.”

“Oh…” Yuri pulled his legs up into the couch, resting his chin into his knees. “Right.”

It was a similar feeling to when he first boarded to plane here; a one-way plane ticket had felt hot in his hand. There were all sorts of uncertainties with it. First, there was the uncertainty of not know when he would go back to St. Petersburg, or… well, at this point he wasn’t too certain if he was going back. Second, there was no telling what staying with Otabek was going to be like. Would they be able to stand being in a one bedroom apartment together without stepping over each others toes? Had too much time passed since they hung out, that this kind of move could completely ruin their friendship? For not the first time since he had decided to leave Russia, Yuri wondered if all this was really a good idea. Then he sunk into the couch just a little more, took a sip of coffee, which warmed his insides just right, and let himself focus on the fact that he was with someone, rather than sitting alone in his childhood bedroom. Yeah. He had made the right choice. Probably.


End file.
